


Windows from your Home

by Silvermoonphantom (Daitoshi)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate History, Awesome Hobbit Powers, Dragons, Fuck trolls man, Gen, Hobbit Culture, M/M, One Shot Collection, Trolls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1330675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daitoshi/pseuds/Silvermoonphantom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stories and snippets exploring various plot ideas inspired by Tolkien's works.</p>
<p>Some are scattered headcanons that don't necessarily exist within the same AU (as some clash with each other) but all are interesting ideas that I'd like to explore in a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heat of the Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There is little or no magic about them, except the ordinary, everyday sort which helps them to disappear quietly and quickly...”

 

On the first few nights, he didn't dare do anything peculiar around the dwarrow. Bilbo was quite naturally suspicious of the entire bunch, despite his willingness to participate on their quest.

After a while, he made it a habit to circle the camp, brushing trees and shrubs and dropping small rocks that he could forage and collect. His companions seemed to think he was scouting the area, and that was fine. He felt safer, knowing there were warding threads linking back to him.

 

The threads would not protect him from something that was hunting down their trail, but it would distract those who might happen across their camp. The random bandit might recall he had luck on a different path, and a wolf might hear a rustle of a promising rabbit in the distance.

Wards didn't help a bit if the enemy already knew their position, or was actively tracking them, but it was as good as he could manage without any proper lodestones or...other means of securing an area.

 

That kind of thing was frowned upon – he wouldn't even know about it if his mother hadn't dabbled in secret. Anything involving blood or bits of flesh were generally frowned upon, no matter the good intent behind it. Still, Bag End was one of the hardest places to randomly stumble upon in The Shire. (trumped only by the Took's Smials) One must have a very good map or a guiding hand or a frightfully good memory of roads to arrive there without being invited. It surprised him in exactly zero ways that the group had a hard time finding his home.

Bilbo was quite careful _not_ to cut his finger the next night, just to spite those thoughts. He was a proper gentle-hobbit, a Baggins, no matter what Tookishness prompted him to go on this ridiculous journey.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin had sent him to investigate a strange light in the distance and to hoot like various owls to confirm or deny safety. It all seemed rather ridiculous to the Hobbit, especially once he realized what trouble they had landed themselves in.

Honestly, trolls was a step too far as what qualified as an adventure. This was barreling right past the lines of 'Interesting Adventure' and straight into 'Dangerous Foolery.'

 

While he hid in the brush outside the light of their campfire, Bilbo thought of quite a few different plans of action.

 

He could wait, and have the dwarrow creep close from curiosity. They had swords and axes, but there was no guarantee that they'd be successful against three rather large trolls. Maybe one, but not three. Bilbo had no desire to be blamed for the deaths of his companions.

Another idea, when watching their angry ribbing of each other, and the childish way they easily fell into tussling, was to try and throw his voice to insult each troll. Perhaps they'd fight, and he could free the ponies and be off. That too, had problems. What of when the trolls found out their dinner was missing? If the Company was outside his little ring of stones and leaves, they'd not be hidden if the trolls stomped about in a rage.

Perhaps he could return to them and report the ponies were lost. He huffed, abandoning that plan quickly as it stung his pride. He knew enough of the Dwarrow to know they'd likely storm in to free their mounts and then it'd be the problems of the first plan all over again.

Bilbo stole into the darkness of the forest, quick hands and keen eyes filling both a sack and his pockets with plants that were familiar to him. He plucked from the leaflitter a few stones and tucked them into his pocket as well.

Back by the campfire, the Trolls had begun arguing over how to prepare the ponies, one of them waving around a knife and gesturing angrily. It was likely too much to ask that he stab one of his kin, so Bilbo took the initiative and tossed a stone hard, across the camp and away from his position.

The trolls did not notice the first stone, but one did perk up at the second. The third and fourth were sent skittering through leaves, and all three trolls leapt to their feet in excitement at a new type of creature so close to their camp. They stormed off, the very ground rumbling under the weight of their feet, yet their bodies moved surprisingly quiet amongst the trees.

Bilbo slipped forward, upending his small sack into the sludge-like broth. The rumbling was returning, and he did not have the speed to get back to the treeline. He took a deep breath, and tossed the sack into the fire before backing up a few steps and shoving his shaking hands into his pocket.

Then, he sat down.

 

The trolls were certainly surprised to find a little creature in their camp, nibbling on a handful of dark berries.

 

“Care to join me for dinner, gentle-trolls?” Bilbo was proud that his voice only held the barest tremor of fear.

“Who're you?” One rudely stomped up to him, pausing in bewilderment as the creature did not startle or try to flee.

“I am Bilbo, and I am a Hobbit.” He took another bite, hoping that the little berries wouldn't truly be his last meal. He really would have rather had blackberry pie or a mushroom and cheese sandwich, but it was too late for that now.

The trolls growled between themselves, wondering if the hobbit could be eaten, or simply kept as a pet. The tallest seemed quite keen on lopping off his feet and keeping him in a little cage. Bilbo tried not to cringe at the idea.

“Excuse me! If I could offer a suggestion?”

They paused, looking down at him.

“I'd be quite happy to be eaten, but certain customs must be met. You see, if you simply grab me and handle me roughly, I'll be quite scared!”

“You wanna be et?” The middle one scratched his jaw, looking befuddled. Bilbo's voice felt strained in his throat, but he kept speaking through his fear.

“Indeed I do. Hobbits are quite happy to be eaten by bigger folk like yourself, but if we get too scared, we let out a terrible stink, and the taste of it will get down to our very bones! It's quite embarrassing really. Ruins all the buttery sweet meat.”

The smaller one snarled.

“Then how're you happy to go in the pot, if you're just spoiling the rest of the meal? I think you're trying to trick us!”

Bilbo plastered a look of indignant outrage onto his face and cried out.

“I would never! There's an easy way to eat a hobbit without their fear spoiling the meat! Here, I even brought the supplies!” From his pockets, he took the plump mushrooms, their bright red caps with white spots gleaming in the firelight.

“When a proper hobbit wants to be eaten, his guests” Bilbo paused, fumbling for words. “Well, I guess that'd be you now, wouldn't it.”

The tallest nodded, all of them curious. The hobbit nodded to himself, getting up walking between their feet. The smallest grabbed at him, but the taller one swatted at his head, and snarled.

Bilbo placed a portion of the mushrooms next to each of their bowls, and held a large one himself, thoughts still racing.

“You see, when a Hobbit wants to be eaten, he will offer a bit of his food to his guests. If the guests also want to eat the Hobbit, they'll offer a bit of their food back. Not much!” He added, seeing the sour look stealing over their faces.

“Hardly a mouthful, and my mouth is quite small. Just enough to seal the deal.” They settled, and he took a deep breath to steady himself.

“We'll all eat the lovely snack, and I'll throw myself on your knife with pride, knowing I'll be dinner to such fine and upstanding folk.”

“How do I know you're not tryin' ta poison us?” The small one growled. “I don't know mushrooms, and these could be death.” Obviously, he was the smart one of the bunch.

Bilbo thought hard, and he thought fast, for if the silence stretched for too long it would surely become suspicious.

“Likewise, how do I know you won't poison me, instead of letting me throw myself on your knife?”

They howled angrily, saying their honor was besmirched by such a claim, as if they were not so cruel as that. They appeared to have forgotten they were trolls, and by nature were rather beastly. Being treated like a gentlefolk had piqued their pride, and they wanted to keep that feeling. Finally, the tallest suggested a plan.

“Ow about you eat yur m'shrooms, we'll eat the stew, an' then we trade?

Bilbo nodded, as this sounded like a fine plan. He was already feeling a bit relaxed, with the huge fire radiating heat into his previously cold muscles.

He drew the red capped mushroom to his lips, and calmly ate his way through it. A bit bitter, without being fried in butter and salted, but still good. He peered up, and the trolls were each taking mouthfuls of the stew. One of them grumbled and picked a long stem from his teeth, and Bilbo nearly had a heart attack. But, the troll simply flicked it into the brush and finished his bowl.

By the time the trolls had gotten to the mushrooms and Bilbo had his own overlarge bowl sitting in his lap, he was beginning to wonder if they had the same kind of stomach as hobbits did. He had only taken a few sips, and the trolls had already finished their mushrooms when a group of dwarves crashed through the brush nearby. Bilbo sighed, wishing they had taken longer or that the trolls were quicker to trust.

The Trolls first figured it must be more Hobbits here to throw themselves on their knives, but at the sight of dwarven beards and shining swords, grew very angry indeed. Bilbo rushed away from the fire as quick as he could, fear pumping energy into his limbs despite the relaxing warmth diffusing through them. He sensibly tucked himself into a shadow in the commotion, and tried very hard to be unseen. A loud crash and a wild shriek sounded behind him, and he glanced back.

One of the trolls had fallen right into the fire, and was thrashing and screaming to get out. The shortest was hunched over, clutching his stomach and swatting clumsily at the dwarrows that scurried between his feet and slashed at his calves and waving hands.

Soon enough the dwarves stopped trying to stab at their tough-skinned foes and simply watched as they keeled over, groaning and twitching and spitting up foamy bile.

Bilbo waited until the creatures were well and truly dead before revealing himself.

“Buglar! There you are, did you see what happened before we arrived?”

Bilbo hummed, still tasting the rather sour stew in his mouth. He'd probably be sick in a few hours from whatever rotten meat they used. Mutton indeed.

“No, no, I had seen the trolls and was trying to release the ponies without getting caught.” He pretended to eye the trolls with surprise and horror.

“It looks like something rotten found its way into their dinner.”

He smiled tightly, exhaustion creeping up his spine from the constant excitement of the last hour. Sleep sounded nice, perhaps a spot of dinner.

“Lucky enough for us, I suppose.”

It may be early enough for breakfast. The sky was already turning gray. The nearby dwarrows _harumphed_ unkindly at his supposed uselessness, but Bilbo was already plotting out a lovely breakfast from the plants he had found in the night.

Baneberry, Lady-of-the-Night, Meadow saffron, Silver Vine, Thornapple, Sweet Belladonna... Well, those were the Hobbit's names. Nightshade, Hemlock and Devil's Ivy were a few more menacing names that big-folk liked to use.

Some more of the red-capped mushrooms would do nicely, and he knew one of the stalks he pulled up had been a relative of wild carrot. Queen Anne's Lace? He'd have to check if they were ripe.

And really, Belladonna was quite fine a name. His own mother had been named after the plant. There was no need to rename it Deadly Nightshade, only remember that non-hobbits shouldn't put it in their mouths. The berries were delicious, if a bit tart. Good for pies.

One thing that other races seemed to constantly forget: Hobbits were creatures of the earth, and there were very few plants that could harm them even a bit.

 

 

 


	2. Mushrooms and Diets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hobbits have a great fondness for mushrooms. Not just for food, but also for smoking and drinking them steeped into tea...."

Hobbits have a great fondness for mushrooms. Not just for food, but also for smoking and drinking them steeped into tea.

Great for relaxation, his father always said, and one of the remedies for anxiety or temper is for a special mushroom tea. The mild hallucinations meant it was working.

 

After Rivendale, Bofur noticed Bilbo had suddenly become much more relaxed and complacent, not caring about things that would have otherwise thrown him into a huff. He simply sat on his pony, smoking his odd-smelling pipe, gazing off into the distance and sounding quite airy and flat when he spoke.

Bofur was alarmed, thinking it a malady of the spirit, but when questioned, Bilbo assured him that he's simply found some good herbs outside of Rivendale. Good herbs and good mushrooms, with good feelings attached to them.

No cause for alarm at all.

He was a bit annoyed when Bilbo politely declined his request to try some, but forgot about the incident soon enough. 

 

The next time they stopped for food, no one really noticed what Bilbo had been adding to his own food, until Fili gave an upset shout and lunged for his half-empty bow in an attempt to bat it out of BIlbo’s hand. The Hobbit yelped and pulled his food out of the dwarf’s reach.

“What in the world are you doing?!” He cried, with one of the added mushrooms still on his fork.

"You added those to your own food?" The blonde demanded, hands on his hips. 

“Yes....” He agreed, rather confused. “Is this a cultural thing? I didn't know any rules of mushroom consumption were practiced.”

Upon looking closer, they were all horrified. The bright yellow caps were notorious for being extremely poisonous to dwarves.

“Those are deathcaps.” Oin said quietly, giving him a hard stare. Bilbo frowned at him, squinting at the dwarf before replying.

“I am aware of what Men call them.”  He popped it  into his mouth, sighing at the startled and horrified noises around him.

“I am a Hobbit, not a Dwarf. I apologize if I've offended you or some such thing, but I haven't had a proper mushroom dish in ages, and if your people have some strange taboo against mushrooms, I’ll thank you to allow for a difference in cultural opinion.”

Fili waved his arms about.

“Deathcap is poisonous! Deadly!”

Kili simply sat in shocked silence.

 

“Don't be silly, I know all the mushrooms in my food, and not one could bring me to harm in this quantity. “

They stared at him like he was going to keel over or spontaneously combust. 

 

After some explanations and a sadly cold bowl of stew, They learn that hobbits have very different ideas on what constitutes edible.

Nightshade, mushrooms, milkweed and goldberries were all quite nice, if prepared properly.

Those same plants were considered death to other races.

 

Everyone resolved to leave the Hobbit to his own food, and to never try and steal from his plate.

_ (or let him cook) _


	3. Say What You Mean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Simply put, it was impossible to lie to a Hobbit and get away with it."

 

Hobbits were a simple folk. They liked good food, warm beds and a safe home.

At least, that's what they'd tell you.

 

When an Outsider meets a Hobbit, the general first impressions are as follows: Soft, Gluttonous and Unnecessarily Fussy.

The only callouses a Hobbit earned were that of an honest day's work. No long scars from battles, and they were generally a bit curved in shape from generous meals.

They enjoyed a minimum of four meals a day, and would take six or seven if they had time. When confronted by a new problem, they would fret over it and waste many words trying to describe what exactly the problem was, before actually getting around to doing anything about it.

 

Interestingly, the opposite is true if you ask a Hobbit. They think Outsiders are Rude, Reckless and Harsh.

For you see Hobbits, unlike many other races, could get to the heart of things rather easily. There was something about the spoken word that their keen ears could hone in on, something in the breath that could give away a heart's secrets.

Simply put, it was impossible to lie to a Hobbit and get away with it.

Oh, you could certainly tell falsehoods all day long, and the curly-footed creatures would probably listen and nod along. However, all you'd be doing is giving them an easier time in hearing your heart's song and what you know to be true.

And so, Hobbits are a peaceful folk.

After all, it's rather hard to stab someone when every bit of chatter is a flash of insight into their flow of emotions and the honest truth of how they see the world and how they view other people.

 

Trust and Honesty in a Hobbit's mind are very close to how often you speak, and how many words you use. After all, if you speak too little, you must have something to hide.

They spend many words to explain the goings-on of a situation, and gossip is both popular and crucial for their society’s continuing peace.

Even with ‘warring’ clans, talk is upheld using snippets of gossip and casual conversations – just enough to let the other family know that they were lying through their teeth when they complimented your gardens, and truly did still find  you contemptible.

 

Hobbits are terribly good at bartering with people who aren't also Hobbits – They know exactly how much you're willing to spend the moment you open your mouth, and know how valuable that item is for you to obtain.

Luckily, most Hobbits are not terribly greedy when it comes to coin.

They mostly trade commodities rather than currency, and use gold as a way to measure how many bushels of corn they can trade for a pony.

 

When the wizard Gandalf came to Bilbo Baggins and offered an adventure, the gentlehobbit heard the request. He also heard the private thoughts whispering in the shadow of each word, curling like smoke through blades of grass. It would be fraught with danger, this adventure, and the wizard was unsure if it was even a good idea to ask for this favor.

The more they talked, the more Bilbo got the impression that this was a very hazardous and unwise path for anyone who liked possessing all of their limbs.

It was only reasonable for him to turn the offer down.

 

To explain the cultural faux pass that the dwarves committed when barging into Bag End without so much as a by-your-leave, let me explain in words that might make a bit more sense. 

Imagine you're sitting at home, enjoying a meal, when there comes a knock at your door. 

When you open it, a crowd of people comes parading in, straight-faced and without explanation as they make a sandwich in your kitchen and begin painting your walls. Despite any demand for introductions or queries for why on earth they were doing such a thing, the crowd simply stares at you as they continue to apply an absolutely disgusting shade of green-brown to your walls and even to the paintings hanging on them. You cannot stop them. Your angry cries and distressed flailing does nothing in the face of their apathetic destruction of your property. 

While the dwarrow may have introduced themselves by name, they did not explain their reasoning for staying, nor did they comment on the state of Bilbo's gardens or house.

To put it simply, they did not give enough words to let him get a feel of their 'Truth.' Those few moments of discerning each other's intentions was about as important to Hobbit propriety as making sure to wear pants in public, or not kicking a fauntling. 

Had they stopped for conversation, he very well may have let them raid his larders. 

As it stood, they were very much unwelcome. 

 


	4. The Shire Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, came to Bag End for help in slaying a dragon, Belladonna Baggins was quite befuddled. Why, dragons are quite kind and reasonable creatures. Why would one want to slay such useful neighbors?"

During the excavation of a hilly region in Buckland for another Smial, a family of Brandybuck hobbits stumbled across a small hole already built.

When they brought a lantern in, they found the dwelling (for surely it must be, with such deliberately sloped walls and smooth floors) was no longer inhabited. They cleared the dirt that their unexpected entrance had thrown into the room, and set to exploring.

The tunnels wove down into the earth, branching off into smaller or larger rooms.

Finally, they reached a room that was not perfectly clean.

There were skulls and skeletons of small animals littering the floor, marks on the bones making it clear that something had picked them clean. The room was large, extending far beyond what their flickering candlelight could reach.

With tentative steps and as much silence as was afforded their kind, the hobbits found what lay in the darkness beyond. Dirt floors sloped upwards into a cone, padded with straw and bits of scavenged fur.

Nestled within were four shattered eggs, the shards scattered around the single whole one.

Briar Brandybuck was a rather overly curious hobbit, and could not help but touch the smooth white surface. To the complete surprise of every onlooker, the egg started to wiggle and crack open.

A slimy snakelike creature flopped out onto the straw and fur, wriggling unhappily and making an odd sort of churruping sound.

The initial recognition that this creature was, in fact, a dragon, was later swamped by the realization that they had been living next to a dragon’s nest for quite some time.

One of the excavators wanted to kill the beast before it could grow up and harm any of them. No respectable Hobbit would put the rest of their kind in such peril. 

But, it chirped and squirmed like a Fauntling, tugging hard on Briar's heartstings. The Brandybucks were never respectable hobbits anyway.

* * *

 

 

Years passed, and Briar did her best to raise the dragon to have proper manners and gentleness befitting a Hobbit. Her efforts were looked on with some consternation before they realized the dragon could actually learn and speak Westron.

Soon after that, the general populous accepted his name (Beratric Brandybuck) and some of them even became friends with the swiftly-growing reptile.

 

As his skills in speech and manners increased, his lack of dragonish traits became more obvious.

He could not breath fire or ice, and did not have wings.

His scales were an orange sort of brown, like red clay and nothing like the sparkling metallic scales that legendary dragons were described with.

Beratric had no particular greed for gold, beyond finding it useful to buy other things. The only things he collected were colorful snail shells and the pressed flower petals that his mother was fond of.

His similarity to a snake went beyond his general shape, and included a pair of sharp fangs that could fold up or excrete venom.

His diet consisted of mushrooms and the standard hobbit fare, and he could digest even the toughest cuts of meat.

As he grew older, the tiny lumps on the top of his skull grew into a handsome pair of twisting horns, and it became very obvious that he would likely outlast any of his Hobbit relatives.

 

* * *

 

The Brandybucks had plenty of shed dragon-scale, as well as the yearly shed horn. From those things they made lovely pale pipes and strong handles for garden tools. Though it was nearly impossible to cut through the tough scales, one lucky jeweler had a set of diamond-tipped tools that he used to shape the scales into useful things like knife blades and buckles and sturdy trowel heads.

The Brandybucks also had a dangerous venom on their hands, which thickened the blood of a living being in seconds. A drop in a wound could incite a thick clot in only a few heartbeats, giving the poor victim either a heart attack or stroke.

It was extremely effective to taint bait in vermin traps, and to dilute into a healing paste to stop heavy blood flow in wide injuries where clots would normally not form. Such wounds were fairly rare in the peace-loving creatures, but farm accidents did happen on occasion.

They claimed it was extracted from a special mushroom that they had cultivated in secret, and refused to share the details.

In reality, Beratric Brandybuck simply bit down into a cloth-covered vase, and let the pressure milk his fangs of the yellowish sort of venom.

 

* * *

 

The Dragon grew a crop of mushrooms in his tunnels, after getting enough mulch from half-rotted tree stumps. This collection only expanded when he realized how many types of mushrooms there were, and set up a separate room for each of the twelve local species. (and one room for cultivating a few strains his mother had bought him as a gift, purchased from traveling merchant Men)

When winter set in, he retreated to the tunnels they found him in, and began extending them toward The Shire. Along the way he found an underground spring that nearly flooded his tunnels before he could rim it with stones and clay.

* * *

 

 

During the Fell Winter, after the first wolves came, many of the hobbits gathered up their larders, and moved everyone into the Dragon’s tunnels. It was a bit cramped, but it was warm and safe. The well nearby gave plenty of water for stews and baths, and Beratic had a rather large collection of food. The mushroom garden remained plentiful, his underground lair remaining nearly the same temperature year-round and therefore immune to the seasonal changes.

 

They were not bothered by the orcs or wolves running rampant through the streets (though many later had to repair broken windows and splintered doors from home invasions.)

That barbed wire was thrown outside the tunnel entrance, laced with venom probably helped.

 

After that, his existence wasn't a terribly well-kept secret, as practically every Hobbit from the Brandybuck River to Michel Delving knew about him. Luckily, they were all very keen on keeping Outsiders from taking offense to having a dragon close at hand, however friendly that dragon may be.

As such, the Hobbits were incredibly tight-lipped about said dragon, on top of their natural wariness toward Outsiders. (Outsiders being anyone outside The Shire, including but not limited to: Elves, Men, Dwarves and any talking being who lived outside their borders, including Bree-Hobbits)

 

* * *

 

 

And so, in The Shire there lived a Dragon.

Its hoard was not that of gold or jewels, and it cared little for things that gleamed.

It did not live in a cave, or a stolen mountain city.

Instead, it lived quite comfortably in a series of tunnels, much like a rabbit warren, with soft moss floors and a year-round pleasantly cool temperature.

Its hoard was of fine foods that needed ripening, like pickles and good spirits, as well as a huge underground garden of many types of flavorful mushrooms.

It used its dragon-spell not to incite greed in the things it possessed, but to tempt wolves and bears to its waiting fangs and away from sheep and hobbits.

The dragon was a well-behaved and much-beloved neighbor.

 

* * *

 

When Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, came to Bag End for help in slaying a dragon, Belladonna Baggins was quite befuddled. Why, dragons are quite kind and reasonable creatures. Why would one want to slay such useful neighbors?

 

The Dwarves were not particularly happy to know the Hobbits had such high opinions of Dragons.

The Shire Dragon was not terribly happy that there were cruel and unreasonable Dragons out terrorizing, and wanted to do something about it.

 

After a lot of cajoling and assurances, The Company plus a few well-intentioned Brandybuck Hobbits travel to Erabor with their dragon.

The presence of said scaled creature greatly reduced the danger they experienced on the road, but greatly increased the amount of towns they needed to avoid.

In the end, they reached the Lonely Mountain, and The Shire Dragon was able to squeeze himself into the back door.

* * *

 

A little impressed by the large piles of gold, he confronted Smaug about how rude and disrespectful he had been over the years. Invading a home and driving away an entire population? Shameful, really.

Smaug, being a proper winged fire-drake, looked down on the Worm and told him in no uncertain terms to bugger off.

Beratic, having none of that, bit Smaug quite hard on the nose.

While Fire Drakes may be nigh-impenetrable against spears and steel swords, Dragon Fangs were another thing altogether and noses in particular tended to be a bit soft.

 

And so, before Smaug “the most Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities” could finish shrieking outrage and get around to actually spitting flame, he experienced the rather painful sensation of his blood hardening in some rather important arteries.

Thus ended Smaug the Golden.

 

When cautiously asked if he wanted a reward for such a great deed, The Shire Dragon looked about, and asked if there were any strains of Mushrooms that only grew in dwarven mountains.

 

There were.

They were delicious.

 

 


	5. Sad Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I picture a fairly human figure... Fattish in the stomach, shortish in the leg. A round, jovial face; ears only slightly pointed and 'elvish'; hair short and curling (brown). The feet from the ankles down, covered with brown hairy fur and are extremely small. "  
> -Tolkein, describing Hobbits.

  
Many believe Hobbits came to be rather suddenly, without explanation.  
This of course, is not true. Every kind has a story from their very beginnings, whether or not they remember it.  
To know the story of Hobbits, one must first know the story of Men.

* * *

 

At the start of the First Age, the first Men woke up in Hildorien, a land to the far east. When the Sun rose for the first time, the Men began wandering west toward it, and would arrive in Beleriland many centuries later.  
The story begins here, with three siblings.

To three brothers, The Valar gave garments blessed with the power to change their shape. The 'why' of this action has been lost to history. Perhaps a few Valar favored the Men, for they knew that race would come to inherit all of Middle-Earth. Perhaps it was a whim.

The first Garment was a vest of bronze and green, and the wearer could change into any scaled beast. From a snake that could swallow a horse, to the barest flash of silver minnow. It was worn by the eldest.  
The second was a scarf of silver and white, and the wearer could change into any feathered beast. From the smallest sparrow to an Osprey so large as to be comparable to the Great Eagles. It was worn by the Middle brother.  
The third was a cloak of gold and brown, and the wearer could change into any furred beast. From the tiniest field mouse to a Bear twice as large as the largest ox. This was worn by the youngest, who was newly an adult in his kind.

* * *

 

  
When Morgoth went to the east, he discovered Men, and the three brothers with their magic garments. He had departed during the siege of Angband, and tried his hand at corrupting a few Men to bring back to his army, as he had with the Elves to form his Orcs.

Morgoth visited the race of Men, and showed his power to them in great feats of magic and illusion. They were awed by his magic, and knew no better when he proclaimed to be one of the Valar come to bless those who followed him directly.  
Many men readily obeyed, abandoning the Ilúvatar to favor their lord. Thus, a shadow was cast upon Man in their early awakening.

It was not long before some of his followers brought the brothers and their magic garments to Morgoth's attention.  
He realized the cloaks were powerful artifacts, and if used properly, could create all sorts of foul creatures to sneak past defenses under the guise of innocence.  
However, the power of the cloaks were divided amongst the three. He would need all three to begin the foul plans already sprouting in his mind.

 

Morgoth approached the three brothers, and asked for the Garments, claiming it was he who had gifted them in the first place, and would like to have them back.

The eldest readily agreed, having seen the might and beauty of his magic, and believing this claim to be true.

The middle brother was reluctant, having spied with keen eagle eyes, the darkness that laid beyond their home. The eldest scolded him gently, explaining greater blessings would come to them for the graciousness of returning a gift. The middle brother could not argue with the logic and removed his vest to place it beside the shimmering scarf.

The youngest followed his brothers example, easily shedding the cloak and offering it with both hands.

In that moment, the greed and contempt for Men crept onto Morgoth's face, but none of them could recognize the evil behind it. Morgoth turned on the brothers, intending to curse them for their foolishness.  
The Eldest brother he struck first, changing his form into a huge snake.  
The Middle brother he struck second, turning him into a huge bear.

The Youngest brother he struck third, but the boy had seen what was happening, and tried to shield himself with the cloak. For all his speed, he could not cover himself fast enough.  
The spell only splashed a small part of him, cloak blocking the evil of the magic, but could not stop the partial transformation to a fox.  
The blast also destroyed most of the cloak, leaving only a singed hood.  
Furious at the loss of the item, Morgoth gathered the Vest and Scarf, as well as the writhing shape of the eldest brother, and fled back to Angband.

The youngest brother stood, anguished at the transformation and subsequent theft of his brother.  
He removed the singed hood, and with it any chance of returning to the shape of a normal Man, for the half-finished magic had then locked into its current state.  
He wept for his eldest brother, and tucked the hood over the middle brother's head, despite the mindless snarl he received in return.

The Middle brother was driven out of the city, and traveled as a bear for many years. In that time he truly was a beast, without his human mind or memories.  
The Youngest left as well, traveling north and west, finally settling in the Anduin valley.

* * *

 

 

The Valar contained Morgoth for a while, but he still had the power of his fortress of Angband, and the two powerful Garments.  
He eventually figured out the spells, and used them to twist the eldest brother into a massive dragon. The forced magic corrupted the brother's mind and filled it with wrath, and his torture was quick to bury his memories of life as a Man.  
The eldest was renamed Glaurung.  
Over the span of two hundred years, Morgoth was was able to perfect the process and replicate the spells on other Men. He created other great Dragons from the shells of Men, beasts consumed by greed and fire, and released them upon the world.

 

* * *

 

  
The Great Bear lived for many years in the mountains, hunting and living like all animals do. Slowly, he found himself regaining his mind and memories, and was able to transform back into a man with the last magic of the hood.   
He learned the language of many creatures, and became friends with them. With the peace and protection he offered, they began to learn Westron in return, and were able to grow skilled and clever to serve him in thanks.  
He found that his curse bred true, and all his children could also change their skins to that of a bear.

* * *

 

 

The Youngest brother also found that each of his children bore the curse, showing signs of having inhuman traits even as a babe. they really couldn't include themselves in the race of Men any longer.  
Their teeth were still a bit sharp, ears a bit pointed, and still fonder of burrows than houses. Their feet still resembled rounded paws more than a man's soft toes, with hard pads on their feet and thick curls of fur on their legs.

And so, they renamed themselves “Holbytla”, or Hole-Builders, for they did pride themselves in their lovely burrows that were warm and homely. The term slowly changed over the years, eventually settling into “Hobbit”

They had no written history at first, sticking to songs and storytelling.

Their past became blurred as generations died and changed the stories, or forgot them altogether.

 

  
Eventually, Hobbits forgot their sad beginnings, though never recovered from the instinctual fear of strangers.


	6. Ask of me no secrets (and I'll tell you no lies)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "one of the Elf nobles was beginning to give Gandalf a fairly unimpressed look..>"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The first chapter of this collection was changed to something else. This isn't a repost)

Frodo Baggins was the son of Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck.  
As a child, he certainly let his mother's blood shine through, playing pranks and spreading rumors and generally causing havoc to hobbitkind. His friends were infamous in their own ways, and their egging on gave him a kind of foolish courage that really should be left alone.

Frodo Baggins was also the cousin (slash adopted nephew) of Bilbo Baggins, the only hobbit to help reclaim a mountain from a fire-breathing dragon. The 'fire-breathing' part was mostly repetition, since Smaug was really the last great Fire-drake and inherently a fire-breathing kind of dragon, but his Uncle seemed to like reminding him of his deeds whenever Frodo would rather not help with chores.

“I walked all the way to Erabor to reclaim a mountain against a fire-breathing dragon, and then walked back! You can clean your room in a night!”  
“You rode a pony halfway there., and rode on Eagles another part.”  
“I fought Orcs and Wargs!”

 

In any case, Frodo Baggins was quite experienced in dealing with his Uncle's outrageous exaggerations, and finding nuggets of truth within the riddles spun by someone who had fooled both a dragon and a riddle-happy goblin-eater.  
A gray wizard and a handful of representitives were no comparison.  
“It can only be destroyed by the fires from whence it came!”  
Gandalf's voice was powerful, but it did not get the cowering reception that he expected.

“Why yes that's wonderful, but unless you plan on Waltzing through the front gates of Mordor flashing a rude gesture while completely nude, I don't see how your plan could possibly get worse.”  
The wizard frowned sternly at the young Hobbit who spoke up. Frodo blinked up at him with wide blue eyes.

“The ring must be destroyed, to help unmake the evils that the dark lord has wrought upon Middle-earth.”  
The halfling nodded, biting his lip and trying very hard not to meet anyone's gaze directly.

“Of course I agree with you. I'd just like to point out that Mount Doom is possibly the most dangerous place on the continent – possibly the world.”

“Which is why we will be gathering a group of travelers both hardy and strong of will to deliver the ring to its final resting place.”  
The wizard's voice was nearly a growl as he tried to impart the importance of this quest on a Baggins who clearly had not abandoned an ounce of his mother's bloodline. He'd not be hard-pressed to say Frodo seemed even less Bagginsish than his coming-of-age party seventeen years ago! That is, Baggins-ish in relation to the entire bloodline, not just his uncle who was still regarded as 'Mad Baggins' in many circles.

“Wonderful plan, I mean that with the greatest sincerity” (It was obviously he was not in fact very sincere.) “But did it ever occur to you that the ring might be destroyed in a different volcano?”  
The sudden silence spoke for itself. 

A dwarf spoke up. Frodo could not recall his name after such swift introductions. The one with the axe, as unhelpful as that descriptor was.  
“What other fiery mountains do you see, lad? Not many ranges have a molten heart. None but for the dark one, to my maps.”

Frodo tilted his head, drawing courage from his friends still obviously hiding in the brush and listening in. He caught a quiet snicker on the wind, and found the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

“Not so much a mountain, but certainly a volcano of some sort. It lies to the west and much further to the south of the Shire, sprawling halfway in the western sea. It oozes liquid stone every so often and expands the edges of its island. I've heard the merchant Men grumble about it.”  
The stillness continued, though one of the Elf nobles was beginning to give Gandalf a fairly unimpressed look.

Frodo fidgeted with a honey-colored curl, following a dragonfly with his eyes.  
“It shouldn't take more than a month or two to get there by pony. A bit better than the six-month trip across Middle-Earth.” less dangerous, too went unsaid.


End file.
